The Little Things
by DemonicGleam
Summary: Castiel experiences what it is to be a human, all the little things we take as a given he takes step by step. Taking care of a vessel can be confusing and difficult, but he's got two good guides. / M-overall, main pairing Dean/Cas, no time-line
1. Hunger

**Hunger**

* * *

At first, Castiel thinks his vessel is broken. There are many things he does not know about humans and this odd feeling in his vessel's gut is one of them. Strange noises are emitted from this area and when Castiel hears them he quickly bends down to listen. He concludes from the noises and the sensation that someone is tying knots in his vessel's stomach, that the body is trying to speak to him, tell him something. He does not understand.

Castiel is not always in this state. He is too busy and can go hours without feeling or noticing this confusing sensation. However, when he pauses for a few moments and things calm down and he can spare some time to breathe, it comes back, at times with a vengeance. His brothers had told him that vessel's need taking care of but now he wishes there had been a manual of sorts, like the one's he'd seen when the Winchester's would buy packaged goods from stores. On Earth, many things comes with instruction and Castiel likes this.

He considers asking Dean, but the hunter is always rushing from place to place. Dean is busy, and Sam is with him and Castiel has other things on his mind. When they work together no moment seems opportune to discuss his concerns. Castiel finds his moment anyway, though he did not mean to or expect it.

The Winchester's stop frequently when they drive from one county to the next. Castiel learns the difference between drive-in's and diners and understands why they call the substance served "fast-food". The Winchester's don't always sit in the establishments, the food is fast enough to be delivered to their hands so that they may leave right away, but they have sat in for a lunch or dinner. There is a time that Castiel joins them and he watches the going's on with interest. He sits quietly, declines a coffee and stares blankly at the menu when it is given to him. The waitress frequents their table more than she does the others and at first Castiel thinks that she is being merely polite but when he notices the way her cheeks redden and her smile brightens when either Dean or Sam, particularly Dean, speak to her, he thinks he's missing a point.

Dean orders a burger with fries and Sam doubles the order for himself. Castiel nods at the waitress when she asks if he'd like the same. When she is at a sufficient distance he looks toward the brothers.

"Why does she refer to me as 'honey'?"

Sam chuckles and Dean rolls his eyes and though Castiel does not take that as much of an answer he likes the way Sam reacts differently to Dean and Dean to Sam. It reminds him of the complexity of human beings. He does not interact much with others, so he takes special care to pay attention to the two that he does. This results in him generalizing some things that are not always true, but overall it leads to him feeling more and more at home with His creations. He likes humans.

"It's a pet-name," Sam explains.

Castiel frowns. "I am not a pet," he replies, wondering how the woman might have mistaken him for a house animal.

Dean sighs. "Not an actual pet, Cas"

"Sorry, I should have said a nick-name," Sam picks up apologetically. "It's just a term kind of like 'sweetie' or 'hun'," he continues.

Castiel nods slowly. "I have not heard either of you use these terms before."

Sam looks at him with a slightly open mouth and shrugs. "Not everyone uses it, I guess, it's just a habit for some people, I don't know."

"I see."

"Don't make it a habit," Dean chimes in, spying their platter of food coming from the kitchen doors. He smiles happily as his burger and fries is set down before him.

Castiel watches Dean with interest. He has often seen him smile in this way regarding edible provisions and he enjoys seeing it appear again and again on Dean's face. He notices that smile's are not singular or universal but very particular to the human from which they are emitted and various in shape and form, like humans themselves. Sam has a large mouth so he can smile wide, but he can also pinch his lips together and curl them up into an oddly shaped grin. It fascinates Castiel.

When they all have their plates and the smell of beef and cheese reaches him, a loud rumbling sound fills the air. Dean pauses mid-bite and puts down his burger and Sam hides his laugh behind his hand. Castiel feels the tightening in his vessel's gut again and his brows come down. Now seems opportune.

"Dean, I have been meaning to ask. My vessel is experiencing peculiar sensations here," and he takes the time to pat his abdomen and stomach. "Are these noises customary?"

"Seriously?" Dean asks with a raised brow. "It's called hunger Cas, you're hungry." He spares Sam a glance and bites into his burger with relish.

"Hunger," Castiel repeats. He is familiar with the term and has wondered when it would affect him. As an Angel he has never experienced such a thing but he has watched Dean and Sam eat enough food to make the connection and understand the correct response. He eyes the burger and opts to begin with a fry. Castiel takes a small bite and chews thoroughly. The fries are greasy and salty, crunchy at first but immediately soft when he chews them. "How often does this occur?"

Sam sips his cola and smiles at him. "Depends, you can go for hours and not feel hungry, other times you feel it every hour. Every metabolism is different."

Castiel listens and stuffs three fries in his mouth, licking one of his fingers subconsciously. "I do not enjoy feeling hungry."

Dean speaks through his full mouth with a mumble. "Then eat."

So he does, and at first he cannot comprehend how the more he eats the hungrier he feels until he's finished his platter, burger and all, and his stomach does not just feel satiated but distended. An internal gurgling travels up through his vessel and he belches loudly. This helps ease the swollen feeling and he sits back with a sigh.

Dean stares at him and Sam laughs openly, elbowing Dean in amusement. "I think he's got the hang of it," Sam says between breaths.

"Cas, wipe your mouth." Dean chucks a napkin across the table and watches the angel rub his lips into the tissue, looking a little sleepy though, reminding himself that angels don't sleep the heavy eyes he ascribes to feeling pleased after the meal. "You good?"

Castiel begins to answer but the waitress interrupts with the check and stays at the table as Sam counts out the bills. She smiles at the three of them. "Enjoy your meals?"

"I am no longer hungry," Castiel informs her. "Thank you."

She twirls a finger in her air and nods. "Glad you liked it, honey."

Dean watches her wink at Cas and rolls his eyes. "Let's go," he says and slide out of his seat, nodding at the waitress as he leaves.

As they walk toward the Impala, Castiel looks down his stomach and touches it gingerly. "Hunger," he repeats to himself. Castiel mentally files away this information in his head and saves an image of a burger and fries next to it. Castiel likes burgers. He is glad his vessel is not broken and tells himself he has yet much to learn.


	2. Cold

**Cold**

* * *

If Castiel understands one thing it's that nothing is simple. This is especially true about the English language. He knows it like he knows every other language, though nothing comes as purely to him as Enochian. Regardless, he has a passable knowledge of English and thankfully so, because learning about humans is hard enough without the added hassle of not being able to communicate with them. What he comes to understand is that words often have more than one meaning and words are not always as simple as their definitions. You can experience them in different ways and Castiel experiences this firsthand.

The Winchesters are stopped at a motel room by an obscure highway, which seems more like an old two-lane country road through the plains. Castiel would appeared directly in the room but Dean has often reproached him for this so he appears in the vacant lot next to the Impala instead. The sign to the "Valley Highway Motel" is supposed to be lit up entirely but only the "E" and "Y" of the first word are blinking in a spotty yellow so from far down the road all one can see are the two lamps in the parking lot and a large "EY".

The sky is dark with looming clouds and as he begins to walk toward the room a coolness spreads upon his cheek. Castiel stops and looks up. His cheeks are spattered by drops of water, slowly and gently at first and then he is washed over with rain. He closes his eyes and wonders at the feeling. His scalp is cooled pleasantly and the way the water trickles by his collar and down his chest makes him shiver. Castiel opens his mouth to taste the rain and holds out a hand to catch it as it falls. He has seen people carry devices to ward off the rain (Dean calls them umbrellas) but Castiel cannot understand in this moment why they would avoid such a pleasant feeling.

In the silence, the pitter-patter against the motel roof, the hood of the Impala and the ground all come together into one glorious sound that resounds in his ears. It drowns out everything and commands the night. Castiel can feel the clouds moving in the sky and the very earth beneath him sigh with relief as the rains relieves its dryness. The air begins to smell of damp fields and Castiel revels in it.

When he is drenched through and his clothes begin to sag and his shoes begin to fill with the rain water he experiences discomfort. His first step forward sounds with a squelch and the drops of rain falling from his hair go directly into his eyes so that he has to blink constantly to see. The wind picks up and angles the rain so that it no longer gently splashes him but pricks him instead and he puts a hand up to protect his face. He's a few metres away from the room and quickens through the sleet, knocking at the door despite being able to shift right through it.

Sam opens the door and his eyes widen. He tugs Castiel inside and holds him by his shoulders. "Hey, hey, buddy," he says urgently, but with a soothing undertone.

Castiel does not understand the concern in Sam's eyes until his shoulder's are released and his teeth begin to chatter along with the shivers wracking his frame. The way his clothes stick to him make him feel clammy and enclosed in a sticky paste. He moves his arms around himself to stop the tremors.

"What the hell," Dean curses as he comes out of the bathroom. "Bring him in here," he says to Sam.

Castiel is conducted to the bathroom and his arms are pried from around him so that Sam can rid him of his trench coat. He glimpses himself in the mirror and notices the paleness of his skin and blueness of his lips. "I'm c-c-cold," he stutters. Dean shrugs his tie off so sharply that he is pulled forward and he has to steady himself.

"Why are you drenched?"

Castiel allows his shirt to be unbuttoned and turns to Dean with furrowed brows. "Dean, it's raining." An exasperated sigh reaches his ears and he's turned around.

"Yeah, I get that, but why were you standing out there? Can't you just appear inside the room?"

"You have repeatedly expressed concerns about that," Castiel mumbles, not completely able to enunciate his words.

Dean sighs and hands Sam the wet clothes. "Okay, take this," he says and hands Cas a towel. Upon noticing how weakly Castiel takes it, he rips it out of his fingers and drapes the material around him himself.

Dean roughly pats Cas' shoulder's and arm's down. "You know Cas," he begins, taking care to pat him and not caress him with the towel as he works his way down his torso "it's not a good idea to just stand around in the rain."

Castiel hums shortly, which is his way of chuckling. His arms feel less frozen so he reaches down to take the towel from Dean's hands. In doing so he accidentally places his fingers over Dean's. Castiel would not have thought anything of it had not Dean so suddenly retracted his hand and stepped away. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean says, though it comes more curtly than intended. He turns to leave and stops by the door. "Take everything off and give it to Sam, he'll give you some clothes."

Castiel wants to thank him, but Dean has already left. Castiel peels off his soaking pants and shoes and dries himself. He catches the sight of his exposed flesh in the mirror and pauses, considering his vessel closely. He pokes at his chest and hips and runs his fingers down his meaty thighs. The hair by his navel is dark and curls upwards. He's lean, but muscular, with strong arms. Castiel does not feel anything other than mild interest in the body he occupies. He asks Sam for clothes and an arm is thrust through the crack in the door. Castiel opens the door wide and pops an eyebrow at Sam, who is standing sideways to him and has his head turned as far away as possible. "Sam, are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

Castiel takes the clothes and withdraws, closing the door behind him. The jeans feel rough against his skin, not like the cotton material of his pants and the black t-shirt he shrugs on hangs on his small frame slightly. He pinches the material between his thumb and index finger and lifts it to his nose. _Dean. _Letting the material slip, he looks at his hand, recalling the way Dean had recoiled at his touch.

When he enters the motel room and Sam gives him an approving nod, he asks where Dean has gone.

"I think he said he went to fill up the tank."

Castiel shuffles over to the single bed by the air conditioner and glances at Sam before sitting down. Again he looks down at his palm and then his fingers and though his body has returned to its correct temperature Castiel feels odd. He looks at Sam. "I'm cold."

Sam puts down his book and walks over to thermostat to turn it up. "You'll feel better in a few minutes."

Castiel sits still. This coldness has nothing to do with body temperature. He thinks on it for some time and decides he'd rather be shivering because of the rain than feeling like this because that type of cold hurt less than this one.


	3. Doubt

**Doubt [4x16]**

* * *

The first time Castiel questions the orders of heaven—that is, when the words "heaven" and "wrong" come dangerously close to being one in his mind—a demon's wails and groans are filling his vessel's ears. It is not on the demon's account that Castiel is bruising the skin of his vessel's knuckles on the table and it is equally not for the demon's sake that he's standing with head bowed and eyes screwed up tight. His vessel's knuckles scrape against the grooves in the wood and Castiel presses harder. It is not as though he feels any pain from this action, but it keeps him from moving. When the gurgling cries fall silent and the room echoes with the hollow sound of metal clinking against metal, Castiel straightens, eyes open and turned forlornly to the ceiling. Turning his palms up in supplication he whispers: "Please."

Another grunt sounds followed by a low chuckle and then screaming, such piercing wails, the likes of which he's seldom heard. Castiel's eyes close again. This is revelation and revelation is absolute. For thousands of years no event—not the flood, not Sodom and Gomorrah—has made him question this assertion. Castiel believes in revelation because he believes in the righteousness of heaven. And heaven needs Dean. The human refuses, insults his superior (to which Castiel sucks in a breath because he fears that Uriel is close to reacting for once), insults God and flat out belittles the entirety of the heavenly host. Dean insults God. All of this should serve as a cold reminder that Castiel is here with orders, not with negotiations and compromises—certainly not with feelings.

"I'd like to speak to Cas, alone."

And Uriel leaves. Uriel leaves and they're alone and Castiel; angel of the Lord, soldier of heaven, ageless celestial being, crumbles. He does not fall to the ground or lower his head, he does not even lower his eyes when Dean looks at him. But when Dean says that they can't ask him to do this, Castiel's resolve shakes, trembles. Dean, I know. And Castiel doubts. This little seedling (how long has it been there?) cracks open and blossoms. Castiel doesn't tell Dean this, nor does he intend to outwardly agree. This is a heavenly command and he will throw Dean into that room if he has to, even if he doesn't want to. _Angels are dying._

"My superiors have begun to question my sympathies, I was getting too close to the humans in my charge—you. They feel I've begun to express emotions, doorways to doubt. This can impair my judgment."

"You ask me to open that door and walk through it, you will not like what walks back out."

_Can impair my judgment._ Castiel should have said does impair, _is_ impairing. He knows the Dean that will walk out of that room. Castiel felt it in the cracks of Dean's soul when he pulled him out of hell. "I would give anything not to have you do this." Castiel means every word, even as Dean does walk through the door, even as Dean picks up the knife drenched in holy water and makes the first cut, elicits that first scream. Castiel means every single word, worthless though they are. And then Anna appears, just barely disturbing the air, and she waters the little seedling with her words, going so far as to align them together, to touch his hand.

"Together?"

Castiel is a soldier. Castiel did not fall, will not fall. "I am nothing like you." But he doesn't call Uriel down, even though there are orders to apprehend Anna and here she is before him and it would be so easy to...

He lets her go. Castiel is left with a fallen angels words, biting accusations looping in his head. _Why are you doing this?_

He focuses back on the sounds coming from the other room. It takes him a moment to discern the cause of his uneasiness. Within a blink he materializes on the other side of the door, taking in the sight of Dean; bloodied, feet dangling, a hand closed tight around his neck. Castiel steps forward, Dean falls to the floor, eyes rolling back into his head, while Castiel pushes the demon knife into Alastair's chest. The rest either passes too quickly or too slowly, Castiel can't decide which. There's something new—indecision. Alastair is strong, his hands cold on his vessel's skin and all he really remembers accurately is the feeling of being forced out of Jimmy's body, being burned out of it. Castiel's only concern in that moment is holding on, hooking into his vessel with all his power because Dean is lying helpless on the floor and Castiel has to hold on. Sam forces Alastair off of him, throws him to the wall and Castiel can picture him even now; outstretched hand, lips drawn tight, veins sticking out hard by his neck and by his temple. Castiel watches a single line of blood run from Sam's nose and colour his top lip. He is only glad that Dean was not awake to see it.

It's not one moment in particular that he realizes. It's every moment, every look, the sensation of falling though he's clearly grounded and sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a sterile and dim hospital room. It's more than doubt. A single tear rolls down Dean's cheek and Castiel forces himself to watch. His eyes follow the yellowing, bruised skin of Dean's face and the trail of cuts across his cheek to his bandaged head. A strange mouthpiece covers his nose and lips, and Dean's breath fogs up the casing and disappears in patches. Castiel listens to the monitors at Dean's side beeping, watches the red line climbing up and down in regular intervals, closes his eyes as Dean turns away. Maybe it's then, when Dean turns away or maybe the second after when he does. Perhaps its the moment when instead of asking himself "why are you doing this?" another question plagues him.

_What have you done?_


	4. Fatigue

**Fatigue**

* * *

Angels do not sleep.

Castiel goes on for months at a time, wandering streets and appearing from one state to the next without needing a "breather" as Dean sometimes calls it. He is fascinated by the human body's 8-hour requirement for rest and is even more fascinated by the Winchesters functionality with much less. As he comes to understand it, without sleeping humans cannot function properly; their minds haze, their movements become lethargic and one way or another the body receives what it desires, whether through a fainting spell or by simply burning out. He's seen these effects firsthand and is glad he does not have to suffer these constraints.

Castiel has seen Sam read into the early morning hours, red-eyed and quiet; he's seen him stare at his laptop until he can smell Sam's eyeballs burning. He knows it would irritate the Winchesters, particularly Dean, if they knew how many nights Castiel had appeared in their motel room, found them both asleep and simply waited. He tries not to make a habit of it but there is something soothing in these moments that he enjoys. Every waking hour their faces are worked by worry and anger, at times fear, a continual string of shifting expressions. However, at night all these twitches and exhaustive facial exercises cease. At night they look at peace and Castiel revels in the rare opportunity to see that on their faces.

Still, Castiel is glad he does not suffer from this limitation, he is glad he is not such a slave to time—not entirely, at least. Heaven's powers can be exhausted, especially when they cut the telephone line so to speak. Castiel retains enough "angel mojo" (another of Dean's colloquialisms) to be able to help the Winchesters out but he knows it won't last. So, on some days, Castiel feels weary. Tired. How odd it is, for an Angel of Heaven to have to pause and close his eyes for a moment, to rest. The more time passes the more frequent this becomes. He can feel it first in his movements; each one begins to require a conscious effort, one that he doesn't care to make. Castiel finds vehicle's slow but on bad days it beats appearing in the Winchesters motel room with a light head and having to hold on to a table or chair to steady himself. Especially in front of them.

Lately his hand has been finding need of these things more and more. As if the closer they get to the fated battle the harder heaven tries to shut him out, shut him off. He wonders how long he'll last.

"Cas, we're getting strange weather in Wisconsin, but I can't tell if it's demonic omens or not."

Castiel looks at Sam's laptop screen and nods gravely though he doesn't understand the strange hills marked in blue and red zigzagging lines running across the graphs.

Sam turns in his chair and raises his eyebrows. "Uhm, could you maybe check?"

"Yes." He takes a moment, a moment too long it seems because Dean's eyes narrow and his lips tighten into a thin line as he watches him, and disappears before Dean can say a word.

In Wisconsin the winds are malevolent. Whipping up to slap you across one cheek and then doubling back to hit the other and Castiel watches people hurry down the street with their hands covering their faces. The rain comes down relentlessly, beating atop roofs and against window panes, hammering the ground. The roads become rivers and gutters overflow, bringing up dead leaves and dirt to mire the walkways. Castiel leans against the nearest wall and steals a shaky breath. His vision clears up quickly and he focuses on ascertaining whether or not there is a demonic presence in the state. He can feel them in the town and materializes near the city hall; it is covered with sigils. Castiel thinks there are a dozen or so demons gathered in the building, enough to warrant some serious attention. There is something happening of importance. Castiel touches two fingers to his temple and closes his eyes, counting the number of times his head pounds until it subsides. He takes out his cell phone and blindly punches in Dean's number.

The line rumbles once to announce a connection and then dies, blaring static into his ear. Zero bars. Castiel looks up into the blackened clouds and sighs. He walks out into the street and closes his eyes against the onslaught of rain and wind. When he opens his eyes again he's facing Dean, well perhaps not directly, all he sees is the dark gold of the amulet he wears around his neck. It seems to swing, though he realizes as he falls forward that it rests calmly against Dean's chest. He holds out a hand to brace himself against whatever he can and feels a strong hand curl around his forearm and hold him up.

"Cas?"

"I'm alright." More than anything he is not, but Castiel would never let the words fall from his lips. Not in front of them. He appreciates the fact that Dean doesn't let him go and just barely leans against his side. "They're there. Perhaps a dozen."

"Why?"

Castiel shakes his head, ignoring the way the walls bend in and out around Sam's head. "I couldn't get in."

Sam nods and closes his laptop. "Okay, let's go."

Dean nudges him forward. "Can you stand?"

No. But he nods anyway and pulls himself together. Castiel slowly moves back to lean against the desk after Dean lets him go. He can see the Winchesters glance at him as they pack and then share a concerned look. He imagines that they're thinking "what the hell are we going to do with him?" Now that he's slowly becoming useless, he doesn't blame them. But right now they are the only thing he's got. "Do you-"

"Backseat is all yours," Dean says over his shoulder as he shoves a rifle into the duffel bag on the bed. He doesn't dare turn, doesn't want to meet Castiel's eyes, refuses to acknowledge that the bags he sometimes sees under them are not markings of Jimmy wearing down but Castiel.

Castiel's lips twitch upward as he looks at Dean's back, at the worn leather of his jacket, his gruff voice echoing in his head, more of a command than an invitation. He is thankful that Dean looks at him, visibly hesitates but nonetheless shrugs the strap of the duffel bag onto his shoulder and leaves the room. Wordlessly, all wordlessly and Castiel breathes out his relief. The last thing he wants are words, tones of concern, gentleness, acknowledging his...fragility. But this is Dean, and Dean is anything but gentle. Castiel walks out of the room stiffly, taking his time, eyes on the Impala and when he gets close enough, close enough to let his burning lungs exhale, he stumbles and braces himself against the car.

Dean walks over and takes Cas by the elbow, opens the door and lets him slide in. He catches Sam's eye over the roof of the Impala, both are grim. They drive out onto a two-lane road, caught between dry plains and quiet nondescript towns. Dean can't help but glimpse Cas in the rearview mirror, looking nearly haggard—an odd word to describe an angel, but apt for one as rundown as Castiel. The dusty road ahead of him is a relief and he focuses on it instead. "Cas."

Castiel flinches at the gentle tone. "Yes, Dean?"

"You should get some sleep."

"Yes," Castiel sighs and folds his arms, leaning his head against the window. Outside, the edge of the road blurs past and dust billows out from the back wheels, leaving a misty trail behind the car. Castiel stares until he feels his eyes burning and finally closes them. The relief that washes over him makes him bitter, just another reminder of his fall from grace. "I think I might."


	5. Laughter

**Laughter**

* * *

Neither Dean nor Sam question Castiel when he begins to appear more often in their presence. No one asks him what he wants or if he'll leave, they just carry on with the task at hand. Dean always curses when he appears in the backseat of the Impala and glares at him through the rear-view mirror.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to do that?"

Castiel tilts his head and meets Dean's eye in the reflective glass. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Yeah, whatever," Dean grumbles. Cas, despite all his formalities and sharp edged demeanor, likes to sprawl out in the back seat of the Impala much to Dean's amusement. Perhaps he thinks that no one will notice, kind of like the way Dean hopes no one notices the fact that he cleans out the backseat more often; it won't do for Cas to sit back there amid old paper bags stained with ketchup and mustard or piles of maps and printed pages of lore and myth. He doesn't really think Castiel would mind, but since the angel starts to occupy the spot more and more he might as well have a clean spot. Only logical.

"Are you in the midst of a hunt?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nope, caught us on vacation, Cas. We're taking a few days."

"Oh," Castiel says quietly. On hunting trips, Castiel has something to do. Sam shares his readings with him and Castiel knows much that the books don't. They usually leave it to Castiel to get people to safety and sometimes swipe their memories if he's up to it, just to makes things easier on them. It's bad enough countless people the Winchesters have met are walking around scared of the dark but with Castiel there they can deal out some merciful memory wiping. Ignorance can truly be bliss in some cases. If the Winchester's are not on a hunting trip there really isn't a point of Castiel being there—at least, this is what the angel himself thinks. The world is open to him; he could go to Jerusalem, that always suits him or to Scotland to walk along the green hills and look out upon the sea from peaked crags, anything he wants, anywhere. He hesitates. Despite all of the places he can be he's loathe to leave the leather seats of the Impala. He likes it here.

Dean watches Castiel closely. Head bent, fingers tracing circles into the seat, you'd think someone had scolded him. It's not hard for him to figure out what the angel is thinking, the last few times he's popped in on them while they weren't hunting he'd immediately disappeared. Dean eases on the gas and thinks. A few miles more they'll be passing a small town. "Sam, you hungry?"

"I could go for something, yeah."

Dean nods, checks on his fuel and glances back at Castiel. "Cas, up for a burger?"

Castiel has an affinity for greasy foods. Granted, it's the only thing he's really tried because it's the only thing the Winchester's generally eat but he doesn't mind. He looks up but Dean has his eyes on the road. "Yes."

"Alright, then," Dean says and switches lanes. It's around nine o'clock when they park in front of the diner, unceremoniously called the "Pit Stop." The little plaza is bare, containing the diner, a gas station, a convenience store and down the road a shoddy looking motel that even the Winchester's wouldn't stay at. The place runs twenty-four hours a day though the menu clocks out in shifts—breakfast, lunch, dinner. The least you could get in the early morning hours is a strong coffee and pastry. They're in time for dinner, which ends at eleven and the place is surprisingly full. The back-lot is packed with trucks and the diner is playing host to the drivers.

Dean leads the way to an empty table and passes a cursory glance at the patrons. His instinct tells him to try to keep the stay to a minimum, the crowd looks a little rough. Beer bellies, torn sleeves with jeans to match and obnoxious laughter; all signs of men who frequent dim bars and enjoy a good brawl. Dean should know, he's instigated a few of these himself. He lets Sam know with a glance that he's not planning a long stay and his brother nods at him. As long as they keep to themselves, everything should be—

"Whattr' you looking at?"

Damn. Dean turns with a sigh and takes Castiel by the shoulder. "Nothing, he's not looking at anything," he says hastily and shoves Castiel into the stall, taking a seat next to him and blocking him from view. "Jeez, Cas."

"Dean, that man seemed angry."

Sam snorts and hands out the menus. "The wings are on special," he comments absently as he flips through the pages.

"Make it a combo with the fries," Dean adds and leans forward to find the waitress. From what he can tell there are only two girls working the tables, clearly stressed by the amount of people in the diner. He suspects the place doesn't see this much action on a daily basis. As one of them rushes back to kitchen window and hands the cook an order, Dean raises his hand to wave her over. He gives her a charming smile but decides to reign in the temptation to flirt, he can tell she wouldn't be up for it. "Wings combo, two cokes and..."

Castiel narrows his eyes at the menu. "A beef burger deluxe."

Dean side-glances Cas and looks back up at the waitress. "And a beef burger deluxe with an iced tea."

She jots the order down on her notepad and gathers up the menus. "Coming up."

Two tables behind the Winchesters they hear a small cry and then heady laughter. Dean peeks out from their table and frowns. The waitress is flushed pink and holding a clenched hand against her backside.

"Sweetheart, I asked for barbeque sauce fifteen minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll get it for you."

"Don't get lost on the way back," the man says and grins lecherously. His buddies waggle their brows at her and burst into laughter as she walks away.

"Pigs," Dean mutters under his breath as he turns away.

"Dean, what is an 'iced tea'?" Castiel inquires.

"Sweet drink, no fizz. I know you hate coke."

It's a while before the waitress comes with their order and in the meanwhile as she's serving other tables that same man who had pinched her keeps hollering obscenities and laughing away with his buddies at every comment he makes. Dean starts to clench and unfurl his fist on the table and Sam worries his bottom lip, knowing that if this goes on for much longer it won't end well.

When their food finally comes the waitress apologizes profusely and Dean has to assure her several times that everything is fine. Sam adds that they're sorry about the idiot harassing her and she thanks them. The wait has made them rather famished and they dig into the platter of wings with relish, not caring about sticky fingers. Dean sucks down a chicken wing and pokes his fingers into Sam's cheek, smearing it with sauce. "Oops."

"Dean, seriously?" Sam sighs and wipes his cheek with a napkin.

"Seriously," Dean says and though his eyes are on Sam, he slides his finger across one of the wings and shoves it into Castiel's face. When he turns, Cas is holding his burger mid-way to his lips, he pauses and then bites down. As he chews, he drags his palm across his cheek and then considers the dark sauce on his skin before licking a stripe up to his pinky. Dean swallows harshly and turns away. Food, food is good, Castiel's tongue wetting his lips is not.

"How much do you think she's willing to do for a tip?" The man two tables behind them snickers and elbows his buddy. "I'd be generous."

Dean straightens up and wipes his fingers. "Sammy, take the rest to go."

"Dean..."

"Hey, buddy. Why don't you try asking me for a tip?" Dean says as he stands, smiling contemptuously. "I can be generous too."

The bearded man scoffs and shrugs out of his seat, belly first. "You say something boy?" Two of his friends stand up, grinning. The diner falls silent and the squeak of leather sounds as people strain forward out of their seats to watch.

Dean fixes his collar and states at the man with raised brow. He says nothing, just purses his lips and mock-kisses him in the air. "Come on, big boy."

The bear-sized trio chuckle and step forward.

Before either side can make another move, a grating sound hits everyone's ear, as though someone had ripped a piece of paper near a microphone.

Dean frowns, perplexed. "Uhm?"

Simultaneously, all three men stare down at their exposed thighs as their jeans slip off onto the floor. One is wearing boxers with a pink heart pattern, another sports a rocket-ship printed pair and the third...

"Oh Jesus, man!" Dean cries out and covers his face. "Why?"

The howling that erupts in the room makes it difficult for the boys to hear each other and they leave cash on table before slipping out the door. Dean snorts and then doubles over. "Sam, did you see their faces?"

"I thought they were going to cry," Sam answers, wiping away tears. "How did that even happen?"

Castiel watches the Winchesters and takes a sip of his iced tea, smacking his lips. "He should not have been so rude."

Dean peers at Castiel and his bottom lip trembles. "Cas, you didn't. Did you?"

Castiel looks straight at Dean and just barely smiles. Without answering, he gets into the backseat. The Winchesters take their seats, laughing warmly. Castiel listens to the rumbling sound with a crooked smile. He can see tears running down Dean's cheek in the rear-view mirror, the flush of his cheeks, his eyes shut tight and experiences such a pleasant flush of warmth in his body that for a moment it frightens him. He looks down at his fingers and then touches his cheeks, they feel warm. His chest rumbles and a bubbly chuckle escapes his lips, short and low, as though he were experimenting with it.

Sam turns around and stares at him, smiling widely. "Good job, Cas."

Castiel sips on his iced tea and meets Dean's gaze in the rear-view mirror, he smiles around the straw at his lips and Dean's eyes widen. "Thank you, Dean. I like iced tea."

Dean nods and drops his gaze. "Sure," he mumbles and starts the engine. "Good."

Sam taps his knuckles against the dashboard and smiles. "Cas, you know, you should come with us more often."

"On hunts?" Castiel asks, eyeing the back of Sam's head.

"No, no, like this. When we're not hunting."

Dean rolls his eyes and drops a hand from the wheel, curling it into a fist on his knee. _Great._ Castiel's silence makes him glance at the mirror and of course, Castiel's looking at him, almost like he's looking for him, looking for an answer. Dean frowns and looks back at the road. This is not for him to answer. Castiel can do as he pleases and all Dean will do is clean the backseat once in a while, maybe let his hand rest where Castiel sits for a second too long. "Do you even feed yourself when you're on your own?" Dean doesn't bother looking at Castiel, he can sense the head tilt, feel it in the air.

"No," Castiel says.

"Well, there we go," Dean says, not entirely comprehending the meaning of his own words—which, apparently Sam doesn't either, because he can see Sam turn to look at him. He nods his head ostentatiously. Whether or not Castiel understands him is all together a mystery to him.

"Alright."

That's all the angel says and to Dean it makes about as much sense as his own words. It only becomes apparent to him that Castiel took his words as approval when they begin to regularly hit the diners à trois and he stops thinking about that fact with any sort of conscious reflection, it just is. Cas just is. Just him, Sam, Cas and iced teas. Castiel likes iced tea.


	6. Longing

**Longing**

* * *

Castiel begins to feel in ways he never thought possible, in ways that had only been abstract concepts in his mind. He has watched over the earth for centuries; he's seen joy and sorrow, rage and lust, confusion and guilt, emotions that have a secured place among faces. Lips can curl up or down, eyebrows knit close together or soar far above the eyes in shock, nostrils can flare, cheeks can redden, fingers curl into fists, eyes darken or brighten and yet so much more, so many more that go unseen, that travel through the blood, affect the inside more than the outside. These are undercurrents of emotion that make the heart beat faster or the body feel cold, things that can go unseen in eyes or lips, things one must suffer alone. As Castiel is now.

Castiel breathes in deeply, filling his vessel's lungs to the full. He holds the air until the pressure builds in his chest and then releases it in a gasp, choking on the waves he tries to breathe in while exhaling. He lets himself fall, the stones of the shoreline scrape against his knees through the soft material of his pants, press against his skin coldly, wet. The water soaks his pants as it crawls onto shore and then leaves the wind to chill him as it rushes back to the sea. Castiel places his palm into the sand and watches his fingers disappear, swallowed up by the smooth little grains. It's reckless of him to be travelling so far with such limited power, but he wipes the blood dripping from his nose and lets it fade into the mild slat water of the Baltic sea. He's secluded on a little stretch of the beach in the company of sharp rocks and cold water, but mainly the air—it is what he has come for. The closest he's come to tasting heaven again. Dean and Sam could never even imagine it, how pure it tastes, how invigorating, how much like home. Cities are polluted, forests damp, but here in this little pocket of Eastern Europe it is pure.

Castiel stands up on trembling legs, feeling the sting of skin that can and will bruise and hides his fingers into his coat pockets. The sky above him is cloudy but hidden behind the haze is a sky so blue as to be nearly blinding. For a moment, the clouds pull apart and let him peek and the sea glazes over with the azure tint. Heaven feels close when he looks up into the sky, even though technically it is not really "up" there. Castiel thinks he understands why the humans connect the two, paradise in the sky, unreachable but there, always there. He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly, focusing, mustering the power of his grace to establish a connection, perhaps hear the whispers of his brothers, but only the waves bubbling upon the shoreline answer him. Castiel longs for home, the only home and the only family he's ever known. It is lonely on earth, incredibly lonely. The dusty streets of Jerusalem stop comforting him, the faithful in the streets make him sick. Castiel does not return to Jerusalem after he catches himself wondering what the faithful would think if they knew that even the angels doubt God, that even the angels could fail Him, could fail humanity.

Silently, he walks down the shore, shivering as the water laps at his ankles. Not even a heavenly whisper graces his ears and for a split second he's ice cold, thinking that it's finally happened, that he's got nothing left, not enough to get him home. And then it hits him—_home—_a distant voice at first and then all at once it's the only thing he can hear. He can't process it, stopped short, breath caught between a sigh and a groan.

_Cas_.

Oh. His grace is still there, quiet but surging in his vessel now, vibrating at his fingertips. Castiel flinches, disturbed by the intrusion into his mind. He remembers asking Gabriel about it, about what prayer was like-after all, it was Gabriel's name in the Holy Book, not his, nearly none of the names of the heavenly host graced the pages—perhaps for the better. Naturally, Gabriel told him nothing and now Castiel thinks that had the archangel been in his vessel he would have grinned, snapped his fingers and disappeared. Noone tells him whether or not he can minimize the effect but Castiel suspects he can, though he never follows up on the hunch. These days Dean's prayers feel like the only link he has to heaven, the only thing reminding him that he's still an Angel.

_We need your help._

Castiel resists the pull though it's as insistent as the echo of Dean's voice in his head. He still marvels at his reaction, can hardly imagine taking another step without stretching his wings and answering, reaching out. It's very much like Dean to call him at such an innopportune moment, to interfere with his plan to journey back slowly, stopping to rest when need be, never utilizing too much power, but now...

_Cas, come on. _

Dean's not pleading, not in the least. His voice is growing more aggravated, frustrated with the delay and Castiel's skin burns hotter and his fingers curl into his palm. He's still standing on the same beach, breathing the same air, listening to the same waves and yet he's not yearning for heaven. His head drops down and within the space of a breath all that's left on the beach are his footprints. The waves rush in to devour the evidence and then slink back, satisfied that there is no longer a trace, no memory of him on the sands. Where he is it's dark, the smell of it is thick, heavy with dust and mothballs but it's soft too, comfortable on his back though his head swims. The grip on his arm is umistakable, though muffled by two layers of material covering him.

"Looks like it was a long trip."

_Sam._ Castiel relaxes, knowing he's made it the full way. Inexplicably his mouth moves, without his consent, indeed without his knowing for he's already curling up in the darkness for respite. His ears don't hear the words, but it doesn't matter, there is only so much one can say in that short a breath. It reaches the ears they are meant for.

"Dean."

There's a warm gust against his cheek, it tickles his hair and the fingers release him.

"Yeah, I got you."


	7. Nightmares

Since Fallen!Cas is now official, this fic will be based on post S8 rather than s4/s5.

* * *

**Nightmares**

* * *

Castiel feels cold metal in his hand, but he knows its burning. His vessel's fingers curl into a tight grip and his whole body hums as his grace flows into the angel blade. It's familiar in his hand, comforting in a way – he knows how to twist and turn it into fatal blows. He looks as fingers reach up toward him, watches as trails of blood cascade past bruised knuckles and calloused palm.

"Cas, please."

For the thousandth time his vessel's muscles grow taut and in one deft movement he plunges the steel tip between fragile ribs. Castiel holds steady until the hilt of his blade meets resistance and bubbles of red gurgle past chapped lips. He withdraws the blade with a squelch in time with the last beats of the strongest heart he's ever known. Thick lashes close over what he knows to be brilliantly green eyes and he feels fingers squeeze his shoulder. A thud echoes in the still air and a woman's voice breathes out by his ear: "now, you are ready."

It's 3 A.M and Castiel lurches forward, eyes blown wide in horror, lungs burning. With wheezing breaths he heaves in damp air, fingers clenched in the sheets of his bed. He's soaked through with sweat and peels his t-shirt off, his heart pounding in his ears. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head down, breathing in intervals of three like Dean taught him to.

He knows very well that he's reliving old memories, in dreams that are so vividly clear that he can smell blood in the air when he wakes - but, they're memories and he breathes in again and again until he regains a semblance of calm. He knows even more certainly that down the hall Dean's lying safely in bed with one leg unceremoniously hanging off the edge of the bed and with one side of his face mashed into the pillow; Castiel's lost count of how many times he's padded down the hall in the early hours of the morning to peek his head through Dean's door just to see that very picture.

Castiel doesn't need to check but inevitably finds himself at Dean's door. When he walks in he breathes in the scent of woodsy cologne, gunpowder, leather and sun-kissed skin that makes him think of freckles and forest green eyes. Dean's lying in bed and Castiel stands in the doorway, recalling the sensation of overwhelming power coursing through him, vibrating in his fingertips and hearing a croaked 'I need you' echo in his head louder than anything he'd ever heard. He turns to leave and pushes the door, wincing as it creaks and splits the silence. Behind him a ruffle of sheets sounds and with a rough, sleep laden voice Dean calls his name.

"Cas?"

Castiel turns and steps back into the room, fingers pinching the cotton material of his pyjama pants. "Yes. I'm sorry I woke you." Dean is quiet and Castiel stands nervously near the door not sure if the silence means he should leave or await further word.

Finally, Castiel sees Dean sit up and though he can't quite make out Dean's face in the dark he knows that Dean's watching him.

"Again?" Dean asks.

Castiel nods and then checks himself. "Yes," he replies in a small voice, quiet and far more telling than he means to be. He can hear Dean sigh.

"Come on," Dean says, trying to sound light, "I'll make you tea."

Castiel waits outside of the room and then silently follows Dean, stopping by his bedroom to don a plain grey t-shirt before heading into the kitchen. Out of the few months that Castiel's been living in the bunker he's learned his way around and managed to master a few simple meals but he always lets Dean make the tea. Dean points to the table and Castiel sits down. Dean joins him shortly and sits across from him, eyes still puffy from sleep.

"You want to talk about it?"

Castiel shakes his head. "No, not particularly." He says this yet sees in Dean's face every splatter of blood and every bruise that he'd caused, can feel pressure on his wrist where Dean's fingers had held on as he reached down to heal him. They are both quiet until the piercing sound of the kettle whistling in the kitchen fills the air. Castiel nods as Dean places a cup before him and absently stirs the brew, smelling faintly of lemon and honey. "Thank you."

"Cas," Dean says, levelling his gaze, "this needs to stop. You can't keep doing this to yourself. It happened and it's over. We move on."

Castiel drops his gaze to Dean's hands and nods. It's all he can do and Dean's face is so earnest and concerned that Castiel wants to promise him all sorts of things. He turns his head when he hears the floorboards creek behind him and his eyes alight on Sam, his lumbering figure stooped slightly, mouth stretched into a yawn.

"Hey Sammy," Dean greets as he stands, not bothering to ask before he takes out a third cup and hands Sam tea.

"It's like the fourth time this month I've found you guys here, everything alright?" Sam asks as he sits, closing his fingers over the cup and leaning in to inhale the steam.

Dean responds for Castiel and Castiel thanks him with his eyes, sipping on his tea while the brothers chat. There's nothing in his experience that compares to these moments in the early hours of the morning where the three of them just sit with their mugs in hand and Sam's hair is splayed in different directions and Dean's face is slightly swollen from sleep; Castiel does little talking but he doesn't need to when the low timbre of Sam's voice and Dean's rough, sleepy tones flow in waves around him, soothing every fear and doubt in his chest. Neither of them will ever know just how much it means to him to have a bed in a room down the hall from one brother and two doors from the other; to have been offered a home when he was homeless.

"I'm going to try to get a few more hours of sleep before we head out," Sam says, leaving his cup by the sink before shuffling out of the room and back to bed.

Dean looks after Sam until he can no longer hear steps down the hall and shifts his gaze to Castiel, whose eyes are already on him. "You done?"

Castiel nods gratefully and holds out his cup for Dean to take, gaze flicking up to Dean's face when he feels the brush of Dean's fingers on his skin. There's no longer an electric charge that shocks him at the touch, not like before, when the very essence of Dean would surge up through his finger tips and he would feel the full force of what he'd forged by raising Dean out of Hell, but it is warm, something he'd never noticed before falling. "Thank you."

"Cas," Dean begins with an exasperated sigh, turning around with purpose in his eyes which just as soon settles into a grim line on his lips, he pauses.

Castiel stands and pushes in his chair, fingers lingering on the wood, eyes on Dean, waiting. Dean says nothing but clenches his jaw and Castiel shrugs. "I'm fine," he lies, still reeling from the events months before, hell, he's still reeling from events from years before - they all are. "We all have our own demons, Dean."

Dean scoffs. "Nice word choice," he says dryly, eyes moving about Castiel's face. "Look man, if you need to talk -"

"I know," Castiel interrupts, attempting a light smile, which still feels odd though not entirely unpleasant. "Dean," Castiel says, walking over to the hunter, still in the habit of closing the space between them, until he's close enough to see the freckles on Dean's cheeks, "I'm fine."

Dean looks little assured, but his shoulders come down and his face relaxes. "Alright, well, get some rest," he says lamely, reaching up to pat Cas' shoulder.

Castiel stills when Dean's hand comes up to his cheek, just barely brushing his skin. Castiel sees Dean's eyes widen, feels him stiffen though he's not touching him. Dean's fingers curl into his palm and the brief touch lingers on Castiel's skin though Dean's hand is balled into a fist at his side. "You too," Castiel says, voice softer than usual. He doesn't look back as he leaves the room, doesn't allow himself a second thought until he's curled back in bed where in the privacy of the dark he wonder's at the strange flutter in his chest. He know's what beating wings are like and likens the sensation to what is now and just minutes before assailing his chest. For once, he let's it be something he doesn't try to understand, since all in all it feels good and God, he knows there isn't enough of that going around. It somehow doesn't surprise him that he sleeps soundly until morning.


End file.
